


Play for Me Tonight

by Ruyu



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Masturbation, Music
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-02
Updated: 2010-08-25
Packaged: 2017-10-13 12:58:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,053
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/137615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ruyu/pseuds/Ruyu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt Fill: John sat all alone in his bedroom, jerking off to the sound of Sherlock playing the violin. Bonus points if it turns out Sherlock was playing whilst thinking about John.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Play for Me Tonight Part 1

**Author's Note:**

> This [prompt](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/575.html?thread=235327) from the sherlockbbc-fic meme.

After moving in, the first time John hears his flatmate pull his bow across his violin, he isn’t sure what to make of it. The hour is late and he truly isn’t expecting the sound. The small vibrations of the strings hum gently through the walls of their flat, soft and hesitant as though it is the first time the instrument has been played, despite Sherlock’s mentioning of it beforehand. The melody is gentle and reassuring and John is, oddly enough, comforted by it.

The next morning as he wobbles down the stairs and into the breakfast area, he gives Sherlock a hesitant smile. His friend sits somewhat stiffly in the chair, hands curled around his trusty cellphone, a simple breakfast of toast and tea untouched on the table. “Your performance last night was very good.”

Sherlock’s thumbs pause over his cellphone, showing his surprise when his face does not. “You heard?”

John continues to smile as he sits down at the table. “Well, yes.” John reaches for the tea. “I was wondering when I’d be hearing you play after you mentioned it when we first met.”

“It is rather unusual of me to go so long without having played. My cases have been keeping me busy enough. In that regard you are fortunate,” Sherlock explains, thumbs returning to their task and his eyes ever fixed on the small screen.

John checks to make sure Sherlock’s gaze remains on his gadget before he allows himself to blush. “On the contrary, I find myself very fortunate to have heard you play.”

“Ha!” Sherlock exclaims. “Then I suggest you talk to Ms. Hudson about that. No doubt she will enlighten you on the nature of my musical talents, or lack thereof.”

“How can--”

A small beep sounds from the consulting detective’s phone and Sherlock’s eyes fly open and he growls in response to his new message. “Am I the only intelligent man in London?!”

John can’t decide how to react to that statement, so he doesn’t react at all.

Sherlock rises from his chair, housecoat twisting dramatically behind him as he runs to his room to dress. Minutes later glass and metal crash together from his room and John nearly asks if the man needs help, but then Sherlock suddenly appears, fully dressed, cellphone in hand.

“My dear John, pay no head to my outburst. They are usually directed to London’s finest and not yourself.” Sherlock gives him a manic smile and takes off down the stairs.

John laughs and returns to his tea.

~

Over the next few hours of the morning and afternoon, John busies himself with arranging his belongings into their new location. Ms. Hudson helps him move one of the spare bookshelves up to hold a selection of his medical texts. John finds himself pausing in his tasks to ask the landlady questions about his flatmate - the strange and enigmatic Mr. Sherlock Holmes. But as he watches her pick up some of his books, read the spines and shake her head, he thinks better of it. And really, wouldn’t it be so much more interesting if he could get Sherlock to answer those questions?

So the subject of Holmes’s violin playing goes unmentioned by John and he is just fine with that.

~

When he retires for the night, Sherlock has not yet returned. Ms. Hudson reminds him that his flatmate often does this and not to worry, but John worries about everything. He still isn’t used to the noises of the house, the color of his room or the texture of his sheets and comforter and he certainly isn’t used to the habits of Sherlock Holmes.

John tosses briefly in his bed before falling asleep, Sherlock and his violin on his mind.

~

John wakes to the sound of music playing so softly he wonders how it had woken him at all. He turns to lay on his back and listen. The notes are haunting and... dangerous sounding. John can clearly imagine Sherlock playing reverently on his instrument, eye shut in deep concentration. What goes on in that man’s mind? He had said that he plays when he needs to think. John’s heart throbs painfully in this chest when he realizes that Sherlock does so because he has had no one to think out loud to.

In the other room, the violin produces a heart-aching chord that has John almost gasping for breath, reeling in emotions that are not his own. He is in awe of Sherlock’s ability to convert his feelings into musical notes, passages and entire movements of music, only to be forgotten moments later. At the end of the long chord, Sherlock moves onto a string of notes that makes John feel frustration and unexplained disappointment. Then, as though he were pushed off a cliff, the notes drop to a low octave and a slow time, filling John with uncertainty and shyness.

John remains awake for another hour, simply listening to Sherlock pour his thoughts into his music, sporadic and unorganized and honest. Only when Sherlock stops playing does John fall asleep, more sound in his knowledge of his flatmate.

~

The next morning is awkward for John; not so for Sherlock, who is once again entranced by his mobile phone. He wants to ask Sherlock many, many questions, but he is nervous of how to approach the subject.

“John, are you alright?” Sherlock beats him to the question and John laughs at himself.

“I was about to ask you the same thing.”

“Whatever for?”

John swallows the lump in his throat and carries on. “Last night... your music...”

His words cause the man to look up from his phone. “Did I wake you? My apologies. I was sure my volume was tolerable last night, at least for your sake.” Sherlock gives John a guilty look before returning to his phone, typing a few words and then placing it on the table.

“No, it’s perfectly fine. I was just wondering if you were alright. The music last night was somewhat troubled and frustrated. I was simply inquiring about your well-being.”

Sherlock gives him the oddest look he’s ever seen on the man. “This has never been a problem before.”

“What do you mean?”

“Having someone listen to my music who actually understands it. It’s a revealing process for me, I hadn’t noticed until now.”

John nearly blushes. “There is no problem.” This is most definitely not a problem for John.

They look away from each other, strangely embarrassed for no particular reason other than the fact that they finally understand each other on some basic, singular level.

“What did Ms. Hudson say about all of this?” Sherlock finally asks.

“I never asked her,” John admits, strangely proud of the fact.

Sherlock smiles and then leaves the room because really, there is nothing left to say.

~

 

“Sherlock?”

John looks over to his flatmate sitting crossed legged in his chair, piles of paper sitting in front on him with his cell phone placed atop one of the stacks. Sherlock glances up from his notes and regards John with a displeased, but nevertheless open expression. “Yes?”

John’s been secretly (at least he thinks he has been) looking for Sherlock’s violin case. He’s searched everywhere, but then again, this is Sherlock he’s talking about. “Where exactly do you keep your violin?”

His colleague seems to deflate at the question and picks up his phone again. “I keep it under your chair.”

“Really?” John replies in amusement, spreading his legs to take a peak beneath his chair.

“Honestly, John, will you believe everything I say?” Sherlock laughs from behind his stack of notes and data.

Head between his legs and fingers curled into the knees of his jean, John huffs and sits back up, eyeing Sherlock disapprovingly. “Well, you want the police to believe everything you say.”

“They are the police and you are you. Quite a difference.”

“How so?” John demands, careful to keep any emotion out of his voice. Sherlock rises to the bait, naturally.

“You would simply be of no use to me if you took everything I said as fact and truth. I don’t want you to follow me around, John, I want you to assist me and question things just as I do. You are my esteemed colleague, not my bloody secretary. The police, on the other hand, should do exactly as I say because they never ask the right questions, they are merely tools in my investigative process.”

“Well, I....” John stutters. “Yes, yes I see now.” John is blushing fiercely and he can’t help it. His flatmate has always been a bit odd when giving compliments, usually because he doesn’t know he’s giving them.

“Why are you blushing?”

The only thing John can do is to attempt to escape. "I-I’ll go to my room and... I’ll just be in my room then.”

Sherlock watches with him with curious, hawk-like eyes as he moves across the room and up the stairs. On the fourth step Sherlock says, “It’s in the chest at the foot of my bed.”

“Thank you,” John says without looking back, wondering if what Sherlock told him was true or not.

~

It’s around 11PM and John is finishing the last of his tea, getting ready to head for bed. Sherlock had long abandoned him to his reading, choosing to slip into his bedroom and leave John to his medical books, which he appreciates. Sherlock has finally come to understand the need for silence between them on occasions. He does his own thing while John does his, only their eyes meeting in the sitting room.

But Sherlock still hasn’t played his violin for him. John only hears it in the night when he suspects that Sherlock thinks he’s asleep. He is never disturbed by the music, rather his body wakes him up and wants him to listen to Sherlock play. It’s odd, really.

John walks up to Sherlock’s door and listens. The room is silent save for the soft ruffling of clothing, perhaps someone pacing or walking around the room. The old flooring beneath John squeaks and he stiffens in alarm. Sherlock’s room grows instantly quiet.

John holds his breath and prepares to back away from the door when he hears a voice from inside. “John?”

Fear and embarrassment render John speechless.

“John,” Sherlock whispers through the door.

Managing to find his voice, John takes a shaky breath and answers, “Yes, Sherlock?”

“Are you alright?” The door through which John listens through creaks as Sherlock braces himself against it to hear John better.

“Yes, I’m fine, but Sherlock...” Just ask him, just ask him.

“What?”

He blushes to the roots of his dirty blonde hair and grits his teeth at what he’s about to say. “Play for me tonight,” he whispers.

John is confused and disappointed when there is no answer from the other side of the door and soon after the lights of the room go out.

The house is still silent as John falls into an uneasy sleep.

~

He’s awake and hears music before he even realizes it. Consciousness is upon him as though he had never fallen asleep; he was only lingering on the edge of it. Maybe he’s been waiting to hear Sherlock play all of his life, like it’s the only sound he’s ever meant to hear.

John knows that this night is different, knows that Sherlock is playing just for him, that he is thinking of John’s request as he plays. Play for me tonight. As he finally wakes completely and takes note of the sounds from downstairs, John is surprised at what he hears. Sultry, deep notes and long complicated passages that have John tugging at the collar of his shirt, unexplainable heat seeping into his skin. The tempo is not fast, but his heart is racing nonetheless and he throws the cover from his body, burning with heat. Sherlock skillfully shifts to another key, playing a strange, hypnotic rhythm, weaving a spell over John that makes him blush. Arousal is building inside of him at an alarming rate, dancing in his lower belly to the pace of Sherlock’s music.

John is touching himself through his pajama pants without having noticed. He gasps at how hard he finds himself, eyes snapping open when he doesn’t recall closing them. The tune wanes briefly and then dies, leaving John on edge and desperate for more. He needs Sherlock to play because it seems like the only way he can connect to the mysterious man, the only way he can get close to him. It seems unfair that he has nothing to give Sherlock in return for this stolen time together, not that they even spend it together. It’s become this odd, detached sort of game they have.

John begins to breath again as Sherlock continues, dancing his bow across those thin strings. He tightens his hand on himself through his pants, his palm feeling the damp spot that’s formed. Hips rock forward into his grasp and John feels guilty that he’s resorted to this while Sherlock performs. Most of John’s reservations and hesitancy disappear as Sherlock's volume increases, strangely in tune with the pace of John’s hand on himself. Heart pounding and muscles taunt, John finally slips his hand down his trousers, fingers brushing through his thin pubic hair to wrap around his painfully hard member. Sherlock’s tempo increases as notes fall from his bow in dizzying patterns, falling and rising with John’s pulse.

He must know, he must know, John thinks. Sherlock is seducing him with his melodies, his fingers, his quick compositions of breathless passions, all for John Watson in the upstairs bedroom, hand on his cock while Sherlock plays with the kind of precision that professionals would sell their souls for. Jesus, why did John ask Sherlock to play for him?! It was maddening and so good, but horrible because Sherlock wasn’t there with him, wasn’t in his bed seeing and feeling the effect that his music had on him.

Music slithers over his body, into his mouth and around his fingers as he strokes himself, squeezing harder when Sherlock plays a sharp note that has him panting and keening with pleasure. John sees Sherlock's long, thin, white hands holding his bow with such grace, and his fingertips molded over the neck of his violin, the dark wood of the instrument reflected in his pale eyes - imagining John as he plays.

John stifles a groan at that thought, using his other hand to push down his pants and fondle his sack, thighs flexed and straining with need and heat.... Jesus Christ, Sherlock!

Sherlock is approaching the crescendo of his passage, notes high, bright and somehow torturous in their clarity. It digs right underneath John’s skin and he can hardly breath from the pace of it. His hand is flying up and down his cock and his pants are tangled around his ankles, hips rising fitfully off the bed and he needs Sherlock there with him, over his lips, hands on his flailing hips, pushing him down, the pressure of him all around....

The music peaks with a single piercing note that has John crying and jerking and coming messily over his hand and stomach. His back is arched painfully above his soiled sheets, heels dug deep into the covers. Sherlock’s name is on his lips but he has no breath to speak or even moan it. Muscles burning and teeth grinding together, John gasps for air, tugging the last drops of pleasure from himself, still arching and rolling his hips into his own hand.

Sherlock’s last echoing note still roars in his ears, ringing and fading as his heart slows and he can breath easily again. The house is silent now, no music to be heard, no pacing of thoughtful bodies, or slick fists.

Still shellshocked from, quite frankly, the most powerful orgasm he's had in a long time, John untangles his pants and attempts to clean himself. He’s still shaky and weak and... still ridiculously high from the experience. Bed straightened and clothes righted, John falls asleep wondering how he’ll face Sherlock in the morning over their tea and if he’ll have the nerve to ask Sherlock to play for him again.

He most definitely will ask again.


	2. Play for Me Tonight Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Who's got a [wallpaper](http://community.livejournal.com/sherlockbbc/91518.html#cutid1)? This fic does. ^^ Thanks
> 
> Also [THIS](http://community.livejournal.com/dullgreysneaker/21834.html) awesomely awesome artwork by [VULPESVORTEX](http://community.livejournal.com/dullgreysneaker/21834.htm)

Perhaps it’s pure chance that John is late emerging from his bedroom or maybe it’s destiny that is predetermining the events of the morning. In either case, as he stands, fixed upon the eighth step of the staircase, he can hear Mrs. Hudson give Sherlock a few choice words about his music.

“Now, Sherlock. You know how that music of yours irritates me and I should tell you now that I add extra to the rent for putting up with it, but last night was simply ghastly,” she says with a dismissive wave of her hand as she turns and enters the kitchen.

John’s hand tightens on the banister of the stairwell and heat rushes into his cheeks in anger. The nerve of the woman! Another three steps down and he sees Sherlock darts across the room, unaware of John’s presence on the stairs, through the kitchen and into his bedroom. John darts after him, not sure what he would say to the man but chasing him nonetheless. The door slams shut just as he turns into the kitchen.

Mrs. Hudson is looking at the door, surprise on her face. “Well, what’s the matter with him?”

Outraged, John gives her the hardest glare he can manage. “You just told him that his playing is rubbish when in fact it’s quite bloody brilliant, you old goat!” He shouts, neither embarrassed nor sorry for the outburst. If she had any idea what it took for Sherlock to show any genuine emotion about himself, then perhaps she’d have held her tongue. He continues to stare her down, hoping that it properly illustrates the amount of disapproval he feels.

Mrs. Hudson’s mouth is agape and her cheeks flushed. “Dr. Watson!” she exclaims.

John doesn’t give her a chance to continue. “Haven’t you realized that his music is the only other outlet he has besides solving crimes? Has that thought crossed your mind? Has it?” he shouts.

The woman is speechless but John doesn’t pay her any attention as he moves to Sherlock’s bedroom door. She huffs and retreats from the kitchen, slamming the door behind her.

John stands at Sherlock’s door, concerned and unaccountably frightened by the man’s reaction to their landlady’s words toward his violin playing. The possibility that his flatmate was insulted by the woman in such a way that he would quit the violin is, in all honesty, impossible, but John is scared regardless. He wants to scream at Mrs. Hudson again, wants to tell Sherlock how utterly brilliant he is; how he could spend the rest of his life listening to him play.

“Sherlock?” he says tentatively to the closed door.

The room is silent and John feels lonelier than he’s felt in a long time. The kitchen is strangely quiet after his rant at Mrs. Hudson and Sherlock’s ignorance of him is wearing him thinner each day. Despite their musical interaction, John is beginning to think that it might not be enough for him. Enough for Sherlock, but not for John.

“Sherlock, don’t listen to her. She hasn’t got a clue. Not one bloody clue,” John pleads, desperately attempting to remedy the situation before he loses something he never really had; something he’s not even sure he can have, but the thought of it is nice enough.

Footsteps sound within the room and move towards the door and John waits for it to open; waits to see the face he’s thought about all night and morning. The doorknob turns and unlatches, but the door doesn’t open at first. John waits for a moments and then pushes, expecting some resistance, but finding that it easily swings open. Sherlock is on his bed, like he’s been there the whole time and it was some spirit who opened the door.

The bedroom is uncharted territory for John. After taking stock of Sherlock, his eyes wander over the man’s room and possessions (that aren’t in their sitting room and kitchen). It’s messy and cluttered and lived in which comforts John, reassuring him that Sherlock is in fact human. Just as Sherlock had said, there is a dark maple chest at the foot of his bed. It’s scratched and smooth with wear and travel and reminds John of his old supply trunk he had as a student.

“Did you not believe me?”

John isn’t surprised anymore when Sherlock answers questions he hasn’t even voiced yet, and he doesn’t feel out of place when he walks to the chest and runs his fingers over it, feeling the warm wood. “I wasn’t sure.”

Sherlock’s curled up on his bed, knees pulled against his chest, housecoat spread out around him. His chin is raised defiantly, eyes watching John closely. “You can open it... if you want,” he offers in an impassive voice, but his eyes are still sharp and John knows he’s letting him do something he wouldn’t let anyone else do. John eyes the latch of the trunk thoughtfully, deciding whether or not he should open it. When he looks back up, Sherlock has turned his face away, inspecting the window and whatever lies beyond.

This is his diary, John realizes. He imagines a smaller, younger Sherlock handing him a well-worn diary, it’s lock open for John. The pages fall open and reveal small scribbles, telling John everything that goes on inside Sherlock Holmes’s mind. If only it were that simple.

The latch pops open and in the silence of the room it sounds like gunfire, much louder and meaningful than it has any reason to be. The piece of metal pulls away from the chest, the morning sun catching on it’s smudged surface.

John lifts the heavy lid and within he sees glossy wood and the sharp line of strings and his breath quickens. The instrument is surrounded by old scarves, tattered books, handwritten letters, envelopes and sheet music. “Can I...?” Just let me hold it, let me feel how it feels in your hands...

“Yes.”

The wood of the violin is satiny beneath his hands, smoothed by determination, persistence and frustration, by anger, longing and love - a simple love. John doesn’t try to play the instrument, doesn’t ask where it came from or why it was given to Sherlock. He admires it for what it simply is: an expressive tool. A well-played object that moves and cries and bleeds beneath the hands of its owner. John feels Sherlock’s eyes on him, watching him as he touches what seems like an extension of his flatmate’s body; a part of his soul that hasn’t been shared with anyone, or it has been shared and not understood.

The moment passes and John places the instrument back into the trunk, lowers the lid and fastens the latch back; safe and secret. He moves to sit on the foot of the bed, eyes downcast to the floor, not in shame, but consideration. John finds that Sherlock is most insecure when faced with his own emotions and difficulties and weaknesses (not that there are many of those). During his insecure moments, he becomes combative and resentful of John. John notices now that Sherlock is none of those things. On the contrary, he is relaxed and quiet, peaceful even, like a great weight has been lifted from his chest.

“Mrs. Hudson --,” he attempts to explain, but Sherlock shushes him.

“Don’t, John. We both know that’s not important.”

“I know, but I feel like I should tell you that you were brilliant last night...” John stops himself and tries to hide his blushing face. Which is futile, of course.

Sherlock squirms but doesn’t say anything, so John continues.

“Thank you for playing for me. You’re an excellent musician,” John says hurriedly, pleased that his voice doesn’t quiver with nervousness, “and Mrs. Hudson is crazy. Your music was not ‘ghastly’.”

Sherlock snickers beside him. “That was a rather harsh word. Not even Mycroft has called it that.”

They laugh together and all seems well again. Their smiles stay on their faces even as their laughter dies and John doesn’t want to break eye contact. This is the closest he’s been to Sherlock in a long time. He’s sitting on his bed for Christ’s sake! Feeling himself grow embarrassed again, John rises, stuffing his hands into his pajama pockets, and makes his way out of the room. He’s into the kitchen but not out of Sherlock’s view when his flatmate says, “Tonight, John?”

John’s heart flutters at Sherlock’s words and he’s ridiculously happy with the world just then. He turns and regards his friend with a overly pleasant smile, perhaps giving away his approval of the situation, and tells Sherlock, “Of course.”

John returns to his bedroom, forgetting his breakfast entirely.

~

Mrs. Hudson is absence from their flat for the rest of the day, for which John and Sherlock (he suspects) are decidedly grateful for. The woman has a way of upsetting the balance they have and keep between each other. They each keep to themselves, only speaking as they pass or sit together briefly in their chairs. Sherlock keeps reaching and fiddling with his nicotine box, but never using a patch. John remains in the chair while Sherlock paces and texts. He cuts quick looks at John from time to time, like he’s checking to make sure he’s still there. John always catches his eye in return, I’m here. Mid-stride Sherlock gets a phone call and has to leave for a while, assuring John that he’ll return shortly.

“Four hours at the most, John,” he tells him as he dons his coat and gloves. John grins at him and laughs. “What?” Sherlock asks, perplexed.

“I think this is first time you’ve ever told me how long you’ll be out.”

“I thought it best that I should inform you of my plan since we have...” his flatmate struggles to explain himself, “...an arrangement this evening.”

John feels like he’s glowing. “Yes, we do.”

Sherlock retrieves something from his room and as he passes by John, he places a gloved hand on his shoulder, squeezing briefly, then leaves.

~

Five hours later, John looks dismally out of the sitting room window as Baker Street grows dark and lifeless in the night. In the past three hours, John thinks he’s looked at every taxi passenger that has driven down their street and past their flat. He feels ridiculous and disappointed with himself, but what else would he be doing if not watching for Sherlock’s return? Point taken, he thinks sarcastically.

His dinner is bland and the telly has done nothing to take his mind off of Sherlock. It takes him several, pointless trips into the kitchen to realize that he is stalking Sherlock’s room. The door is left open from Sherlock’s previous departure, virtually begging John to enter and snoop. So he does just that.

The vintage, maple chest is John’s only real source of interest. John doesn’t dawdle as he did earlier that day, moving deftly to unlatch and open the chest. John is reminded of one of those movie clichés where the young woman opens a suitcase that contains bricks of gold and the light pours out of the case, illuminating the woman, her eyes large and awestruck.

Yeah. That’s it for John. Only it’s not golden light, or any kind of light. John is flooded with thoughts of Sherlock. Seeing the violin fills him with memories and half-formed fantasies of Sherlock’s hands. He sees the detective caressing the neck of the violin, his eyes shut tight to block out everything else in the world.

He reaches into the chest and nearly picks up the instrument... but that just seems wrong to John. It’s just a piece of wood and some strings. It’s useless without Sherlock. Sherlock brings it to life; it becomes a part of him, reaching into places that John wishes desperately to see for himself.

After John closes the chest and returns to his chair in the sitting room, he grows anxious of his flatmate’s return, wondering if tonight will be enough for him.

~

Two hours past the appointed four hours that Sherlock had told him, the man finally tromps up the stairs, his stride slow and heavy. A rough night, then. John rises to meet him at the door for no other particular reason than to see that he is not injured. Sherlock is still out of breath and flushed, hands buried deep into this pockets for warmth. He meets John’s eyes with weary acknowledgment, then lowers his eyes back behind the curls of his hair.

“Are you okay?” John asks, placing a hand gently on Sherlock’s shoulder as he makes his way into their sitting room. His flatmate is utterly distracted and hardly notices the hand on his shoulder. He pulls away from John with an uncharitable grunt, hauling his coat off with a heavy shrug. “Sherlock?”

“Not now, John,” Sherlock implores, raising an arm as if to block John from advancing on him. John watches him worriedly, retreating to sit on the sofa and giving Sherlock his much needed space. He observes Sherlock from his seat, taking in the forceful posture that Sherlock keeps, to the unorganized pacing that he does, unsure of his direction. Frustration, not anger, John detects; and disappointment, not success. The man is quiet, not complaining about anything in particular, so John assumes that he’s upset with something he himself has done. John already knows that there is nothing he can really do for Sherlock at this point.

The man paces for several minutes, neither looking at John nor speaking to him. Then, finally, he stills and collects himself, looking John in they eye. “Thank you, John.”

John isn’t sure what he’s being thanked for but he nods anyway. “You’re welcome."

Sherlock smiles. “I mean, thank you for not interrupting.”

“Yeah, yeah, of course.” John looks away in embarrassment, already preparing his escape from the scrutinizing eyes of Sherlock Holmes. “Well, um, I’m off to bed.”

His flatmate looks suddenly at his watch, his eyebrows rising in surprise at the time. “Ah, I see that I’m a bit late.”

John isn’t upset, just disappointed that Sherlock is obviously too tired to keep their deal. He’s nearly to the stairs when Sherlock calls to him. “John?”

“Yeah?” John says despondently, a hand already on the banister, his shoulders slouched. He takes one step up and turns and Sherlock’s right there. John has always had to look up at Sherlock and this new perspective is strange and profound. Breathing suddenly becomes troublesome as Sherlock places a hand over his own on the banister, curling their fingers together.

“We said tonight,” he tells John and then pulls him away from the stairs. John moves down that first step and everything is just right - him looking up and Sherlock looking down. “I haven’t played for you properly, have I?”

John is still confounded by Sherlock’s hand in his; warm and strong and perfect. “No...I... no,” John stutters, following behind Sherlock as they make their way through the kitchen and into Sherlock’s bedroom. Sherlock leads him into the dark room and turns on the lamp on his bedside table.

“Please, sit.” Sherlock lets go of his hand and John looks around for a chair but there is none so he settles onto the bed. Sherlock takes off his jacket and rolls up his sleeves, moving around his room like it’s not odd that John’s there, on his bed.

As many times as John has imagined Sherlock playing, he’s alway focused more on the violin and Sherlock’s hands. The fantasy in his mind always seems complete and exact - just what he wants it to be. But this — the real thing — is always better. John knows that to be true now because Sherlock is opening the chest and lifting his violin out and it’s nothing like his dreams. Sherlock’s skin is milky white against the royal blue of his shirt and even whiter against the dark wood of his instrument. Faced with Sherlock and his violin, John is speechless and wanting, wanting, wanting...

“What would you like me to play?” Sherlock asks, either not noticing John’s plight or ignoring it. John just nods his head stupidly, not really knowing what to say.

Sherlock smirks and brings the violin to his neck, settling it against his tight throat. His long, proficient fingers curled against the neck of the violin. Sherlock pokes him in the knee with the bow, then taps it underneath his chin, closing John’s gapping mouth. John blushes and readjusts himself on the bed.

Sherlock raises his arm and bow meets string and John is swept away all over again. John can’t decide if Sherlock is playing the violin or if the violin is playing Sherlock. They both move and sway with each other, tangled and melodious in their own way. Sherlock’s eyes have closed and he already seems miles away from John, in some distant place. John finds himself watching Sherlock’s face; not his hands or the violin like he thought he would.

The room steadily disappears around John until there is only Sherlock, his violin and himself. The music is hunting for John, seeking him out and capturing him. John doesn’t know what Sherlock is playing, but he knows that it’s just for them. Sherlock plays a chord that sounds like John’s screaming heart whenever Sherlock gets hurt and a triplet passage reminds him of their adventures in the backstreets of London. It’s all there: their life together. John remains entranced, his body tense for something — anything.

“Sherlock,” he chokes out. His flatmate’s eyes flash open and pin him down. Suddenly, John is away with him, washed away on some beach where the sun never sets. It’s bright and fresh and John never wants to leave. He’s closed his eyes like Sherlock, lost in some memory of a memory.

Sherlock’s notes grow slow and forlorn, each note on a heavy downbeat, slowing John’s racing heart to match Sherlock’s tempo. John can hear the last note approaching like an eruption. It’s brimming with expectations and longing, heartache and possibilities.

There is one thing John does not expect on the last note: a small kiss pressed to his trembling lips. Sherlock is bent over, violin in hand, pulling the last note out of the strings, lips against his own. The man’s mouth breathes heat into John’s body. John takes Sherlock’s face between his hands, pulling him closer, opening his mouth to his friend. Sherlock moans against his mouth, dropping the violin gently onto the bed beside John. John can feel him shaking, like this is another part of his music, some far away dream. Sherlock’s hands are hovering over John’s shoulder and cheek, unsure of where to place his hands. If you touch me, you would play me and I would sing so perfectly for you. John wants Sherlock to touch his bare skin, for him to tell him how he feels compared to the silken wood of his violin.

John pulls back from the kiss and waits for Sherlock to open his eyes. When he doesn’t he whispers, “Sherlock.” He wakes, eyes wide and piercing, looking at John like he can’t believe what he’s just done and will he let him do it again. When Sherlock finally touches him, his hands are warm from holding the violin, searing into the skin of John’s throat. Soft lips return to his, pressing, questioning, reaching for something inside him that both burns and sings.

John feels his name murmured against lips as he is pushed back onto Sherlock’s bed. “John, John, John,” all the way down into the soft quilted bedding, smelling of Sherlock and home. The violin is silent, John knows, but he still hears the melody playing in his head. Sherlock bites his lower lip and the tune grows louder, stronger, twisting as their bodies do. John whimpers underneath Sherlock and frantically grabs the man’s hips to pull him harder against him. Their shirts are pulled from their trousers and he feels Sherlock’s warmth as their stomaches touch, sharing the heat they’ve built together.

Sherlock moans into John’s mouth and pulls away to look John in the eye. “What did it feel like?”

“What?” John asks in confusion. His flatmate smiles that knowing smile of his and then climbs off John to stand, picking up his violin and returning it to the chest. John can only gape at Sherlock as he removes his shirt and tosses it across the room.

“When I played for you last night,” Sherlock reminds him with a devilish grin. “What did it feel like?” The buttons of Sherlock’s slacks pop open, revealing black pants clinging tightly to his hips. There is a dark bruise his left iliac crest and scratches on his ribs. John sits up and inspects Sherlock closely as his slacks fall the floor. Shoes, socks and trousers gone, Sherlock rejoins and strips John of his clothing and pulls them properly onto the bed.

“I...I knew...” John tries to say but Sherlock’s lips are too close for him to not kiss. A chuckle escapes between them and John tries again. “I knew what you were doing.”

“Oh?”

The events of the previous night play again in John’s mind: the heat and the pulsing rhythms, the need to have Sherlock with him, the aching want that followed John throughout the day when he thought of his flatmate.

John makes a sound he isn’t sure he’s ever heard himself make before as he moves between Sherlock’s legs, running his hands up Sherlock’s torso, over his shoulders and twining his fingers with Sherlock, their chests meeting. “You were saying this,” John says against Sherlock’s neck. John shivers when Sherlock inhales sharply and he can feel the man’s chest expand beneath him. “And it felt like this.” He presses his groin into Sherlock’s clothed one, mindful of the man’s bruised hip and Sherlock gives a sharp, surprised exhale, fingers tightening within John’s grasp.

“Yes,” Sherlock hisses, eyes wide and excited. He lets go of John’s hands and pulls him back down into a kiss.

“You should have been there,” John tells him. It pains John to think that he might not have ever heard Sherlock’s music and he would have never asked him to play for him. “I wanted to see your face.” He whimpers as Sherlock’s nails scratch against his stomach, so very close to his arousal. “I wanted you to touch me.” Then Sherlock’s hesitantly stroking him and John wants to cry in relief. “Touch you.” Their hands meet as John reaches to tug down Sherlock’s pants and take hold of his growing erection.

The tendons of Sherlock’s neck are pulled taut. John can see the pulsing skin at the base of his throat, fluttering between the long white chords of his neck. He can’t help but to lean down and bite the soft dip where shoulder meets neck. The body beneath him jerks and John only bites harder because this is just what he wanted. John brackets Sherlock’s body with his arms, keeping him pinned as they thrust against each other.

“John,” Sherlock keens, bending his knees so he can tighten them around John’s waist, pulling him harder against him. John can only catch his own lip between his teeth and grind against Sherlock harder, watching Sherlock’s face contort in pleasure.

“Did you,” John gasps, letting his forehead rest against Sherlocks, “know what you were doing?”

Sherlock’s breaths grow short and quiet and thighs press harder against John’s sides. John is mesmerized by the look in the man’s eyes: pleading and overwhelmed and John, John keep going, I’m nearly there.

“Yesss,” Sherlock hisses, bucking up into John’s body, fingers pinching tightly into his arm and back like hot nails. Heat spills between them and John watches in awe as Sherlock gasps for air, eyes squeezed shut, overwhelmed by his orgasm. The muscles of his stomach and thighs spasm fitfully against John, loosening then gripping him as the man blissfully convulses beneath him. Sherlock’s eyes open, fixing John with a scorching look, and he digs his sharp fingers deeper into John’s skin, pressing up into him a final time, then falling back into the bed. “Yes, I did,” Sherlock says breathlessly and then John’s coming harder than he’s ever thought possible. It’s white-hot and sliver around the edges and Sherlock’s face is all he can see. The music is back, blaring and sudden like a thunderous drumroll; an army of violinist performing at a maddening tempo. Then the wave crashes and all is silent.

Breathing. Skin. Sherlock.

Sherlock.

John has seem many things in his life — many, many glorious, wonderful things — but the sight of Sherlock Holmes relaxing beneath him, thighs spread loosely around John’s hips; his wild hair and flushed skin tops them all. Tops everything that he imagines he will ever see in his life.

Sherlock lets out a long breath and John joins him, falling to Sherlock’s side and exhaling a content, exhausted sigh. John feels Sherlock sit up and he hears a click as the man turns off the lamp, plunging the room into darkness.

“John?” Sherlock asks softy as he settles down beside John, pulling the bedding over them.  
The detective’s body is warm and still damp from their previous exertions and John presses closely against him. “Hmm?” he grunts against Sherlock’s bony shoulder.

Sherlock’s hand brushes through his damp hair and lips touch his cheek. “I... I just though I should tell that I...”

John stops him with a kiss, prying his mouth open with a deep, probing tongue. Sherlock gasps and threads his fingers tightly into John’s hair. “You don’t have to,” he says after he releases the man’s mouth. “You’ve already told me everything I need to know,” John reminds him. “Thank you for playing for me tonight.”

Sherlock’s lips are back, placing small, ardent kisses against his face. “Thank you for listening, John.”

He holds Sherlock against him, running his fingertips against his soft skin, and sleep takes them, music still playing softly in his head.


End file.
